(Never) Too Late
by thescientist291
Summary: Sometimes sentiment takes control of our heads. Sometimes we get too carried away. Sometimes we say things that should have been left unsaid. Sometimes the things that need to be said don't get said at all. Sometimes we get second chances, and sometimes... Sometimes, we're too late. Or maybe, we never are. Slash: John and Sherlock. Post Hounds.
1. Internal Assessments

**This story is dedicated to fellow writer Lynn Heartnet. I offered a few prompts to her on her collection of Johnlock stories (I admit one prompt was incredibly extensive, due to my getting carried away when I came up with it), and she PM'd me saying she was completely hooked on my ideas and couldn't wait to read my own works on them. Inspired, I took one of my prompts and decided to write on it. I won't say which one it is because if you look at the reviews on Lynn Heartnet's stories you'll likely find my three prompts and I don't want you to know what happens too soon ;) If you're here reading this story, thank you so much! I'm slowly adding my own works to this site and hopefully I'll be a constant updater - we'll just have to see. Review and let me know you're thoughts, even if it is a simple note saying you were here. Every bit counts :) Enjoy!**

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John was completely, utterly, and thoroughly confused.

Lately he'd been doing a lot of internal inspecting, if you will: just checking on his emotions and such. He'd gone through several girlfriends up to this point, each and every one of them being chased away by Sherlock (from one extent to another). Not that he fully minded. Of course he wished he could determine that each girl wasn't the right one for him on his own, but he was grateful Sherlock was able to spare him some of that likely inevitable heartache. He also recently began to realize that Sherlock was indeed, without a doubt, his best friend. He cared for him enormously, and unashamedly as well. Perhaps, at times, he cared for him too much. Perhaps, at times, he was too loyal. After all, considering Sherlock's remark on having no friends a few weeks ago, John had every right to be angrier at Sherlock than he had actually been. However, deep down John knew he had been somewhat eager to make amends with his friend, and even the discovery of the stunt Sherlock pulled in the laboratories did little to sway him. John knew he should have been harsher towards Sherlock, but he just couldn't help it. Sherlock appealed to him in the strangest of ways.

But why? John sat on his bed, running his hand over his face in frustration and confusion. It was quite early in the morning; he'd awoken from a peculiar dream that caused him to start reassessing himself. In this dream, Sherlock had kissed John in the heat of an exciting discovery of their latest case. And John woke up to the fleeting feeling of Sherlock's lips pressed firmly against his. John had no idea where this dream came from. Was it due to all the talk people engaged in, their constant remarks on him being gay? Was it his insistent denial of it? He just could not, for the life of him, figure it out. So, seeing that this would be going nowhere for the time being, John arose from his bed, went to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash his face, then went down into the living room to prepare some breakfast.

As John clambered down the stairs, he wondered briefly if Sherlock had gotten any sleep. He'd been so restless and alive lately that John knew the git needed some sort of a recharge. He entered into the living room and glanced around. No sign of Sherlock. _Hmmm. Perhaps he's in the kitchen microwaving eyeballs again._ John moseyed into the kitchen. No sign of him again. _Well, that's certainly unusual,_ John pondered to himself. With a shake of his head in mild surprise, he proceeded to make some coffee for both him and his flat mate.

After a moment, both mugs were ready. John took both and set them on the table next to him as he settled into his chair, reaching for his laptop. He decided he would wait a moment for Sherlock to come barging through the door, announcing he'd harpooned yet another pig – _or perhaps this time it would be a horse?_ John gave a light chuckle and shook his head with amusement at the recollection of the sight of Sherlock that day. He opened his laptop, logged in, took a sip of his coffee and began to browse around.

A little while later, John pulled his consciousness out of the virtual realm of his laptop and realized that Sherlock was still not around. With a small frown, John shut his laptop and set it aside, wondering where Sherlock could possibly be. He was about to get out of his chair when he hesitated for a moment, and then decided to send a text.

"It's not like you to not be here flitting about at this time of day. Where are you?"

John waited a moment for the reply, but it never came. Instead, he heard a **_ding_** sound come from the room next door – Sherlock's room. Surprised to say the least, John stood up from his seat and made his way to the bedroom. He rapped lightly on the door. When he received nothing, he asked, "Sherlock?" Still nothing. So John took the handle of the door and slowly opened it.

What he saw was something he never expected to see, never in his entire life. Sherlock was cuddled into his bed in the fetal position, the blankets and covers wrapped tightly around him and held in place by the tight hold Sherlock had on them. His hair was wild with sleep, and – _is he snoring?_ John was amazed, and then rather amused. After all, he figured, it's not every day one gets to see the ever so elusive consulting detective fast asleep in his bed. John chuckled lightly to himself and drew up a chair next to the bed. He sat down beside Sherlock and couldn't help but watch the wonder that Sherlock was. His lips were slightly swollen due to the 'excessive' amount of sleep he was getting, and they were parted to draw in breath. And, John had to admit, as stunning as Sherlock's eyes were, he was rather enjoying them being closed for this long. With his piercing gaze out of the picture, his face took on a softer, gentler, more childlike glow. It wasn't even like it always is with anyone who sleeps, no, Sherlock looked easily 15 here, and John couldn't help but feel… Warm inside. A smile began to take its place on John's face and he didn't even realize it.

Sherlock took in a deep sigh in his unconscious state and the movement caused a tendril of hair to fall into his eyes. John noticed this and slowly brought his finger up to move it away. He hesitated a moment, afraid to possibly wake him – _and what would Sherlock say if he saw me like this?_ – but he then proceeded, shifting the curly lock away with the gentlest of caresses.

And then of course, Sherlock's eyes flew wide open.

John gasped in surprise and actually fell out of his seat. He quickly recovered himself and stood up, brushing himself off in embarrassment. A jumble of stammers fell out of his mouth as the lightest pink dusted his cheeks. He tried to find an excuse for himself but he came up with nothing coherent before Sherlock began to talk.

"Ah, John, there you are, I was beginning to think you couldn't keep up. Don't tell me that limp is coming back to you again." In one quick motion, Sherlock reached up with his hand, took a hold of John's wrist, and brought him down to his level. "I'd try taking you to a candlelight dinner and then running off on a wild cab chase again to possibly attempt tricking you into leaving your cane behind, but perhaps this time around it would take more at dinner to distract you, hmm?" Sherlock's voice lilted at the end in a teasing, implying shift in tone. John was incredibly confused at this point. Sherlock was referring to their first adventure together, which had over a year ago. Why exactly he was bringing that up now, let alone possibly insinuating something (though what he possibly could be suggesting at John had no idea), was beyond John. That was, at least, until John really looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw a bit of a glaze to them.

_Oh._ John thought. _He's still half-asleep_. Amused for what seemed to be the fourth or fifth time that morning, John smirked to himself and shook his head in incredulous amazement. _Never a dull moment with Sherlock_, he mused. "Uh, Sherlock, I think dinner that one time was more than enough. The leg's fine now, has been for more than a year."

Sherlock only seemed to register the first of what he'd said though, and continued on with a stupid look of dreamy bliss and mischief. "You sure it was enough? Ah well, if you're certain, then I suppose I'll never have to pull my last card on you John." A faint smirk graced his lips, and John was admittedly curious as to what dream-bean Sherlock could possibly have planned for him.

"Oh?" he asked, playing along. "Do tell me Sherlock, what could you have planned for me?"

"This," Sherlock said simply. Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock was kissing him. By the time John's mind had gone on full alert, however, Sherlock was already pulling away, the smirk even sleepier and more prominent on his swollen lips than it was earlier.

John stared in a stupor as Sherlock almost immediately sunk back into the pillow and drifted back to sleep. He had no idea of what to make of that. In a daze, John slowly made his way back to the living room and sank into his chair. He reclined his head to stare at the ceiling, then took in a deep breath. _What in the bloody hell was that?_ John thought to himself, still completely unsure of what to make of that moment. As his thoughts buzzed about at hyper-speed, John began to snatch pieces of them from the spaces in his mind. He took them, processed them, turned them over, inspected them. Let them settle down and wait as they fermented. After a moment had passed, John sat up with realization of one thought, and one thought alone.

John was absolutely, fully, and impossibly enamored. With Sherlock Holmes. And he didn't know a bloody thing he could possibly do about it.


	2. Shall We Say Flustered

"Sherlock Holmes, that is the last time I will allow you to fly off with no warning like that!" John said, storming through the door of 221B.

John Watson was annoyed, to say the least. They'd been given a new case today. They were just at the scene of the crime, attempting to deduce what they could about the situation. John himself had been examining the body as Sherlock thought silently to himself, observing and assuming what he could, and was barely about to tell Sherlock something he had pieced together that Sherlock hadn't vocalized already when suddenly Sherlock literally leaped out of his reverie and, with a _wssh_ of his coat, took off to return to the flat without previously giving John the slightest hint of doing so. John was thrown off for a moment, but then became more irritated than anything else. So he hailed a cabbie as soon as he could and went off in pursuit of the most irksome man in the world.

When John stormed through the door, he found Sherlock intently bent over his – John's – laptop, fingers flying as he researched. Sherlock showed no sign of hearing John's exclamation upon entering the flat, instead just went about his own business in his own little bubble of crime-solving. John gave a sigh and, with a shake of his head, took a seat in his chair. He figured he might as well read a book or something of the sort while he waited, because he knew it would be a while before Sherlock started talking to him again.

* * *

"**It's solved!**"

John nearly jumped out of his seat. In fact, he would have, had he not been practically pinned into place by Sherlock's sudden appearance in front of him. Sherlock's hands had slapped themselves down onto the arms of John's chair and his face was mere inches away from John's. Recovering from the surprise in a second or two, John managed to stammer out an "Oh?" before Sherlock bursted away from John and started doing happy dances around the room as he went off on his tangent about how clever this murderer was and how enjoyable this case was and finally, he had a challenge since Moriarty's last cases for him and… Sherlock was practically doing pirouettes about the room and all John could really do was sit there and stare. His heart was still beating quicker than normal, but for a moment he couldn't understand why; Sherlock's sudden appearance right in front of him didn't truly faze him that much. He supposed… It was the fact that he hadn't been that close to Sherlock since the morning of that… That. John shook his head, trying to get himself to snap out of it. He had refused to let himself dwell on that happenstance ever since the day it occurred. When Sherlock finally got out of bed late that morning, he'd only been his usual self and hadn't seemed to recall any of it at all.

John would be lying to himself if he insisted he wasn't bothered by Sherlock's lack of recollection. In fact, it would be a terrible lie because even if he tried to convince himself of it, he just wouldn't be able to believe it. The kiss was every bit as real to him as was the fact that Sherlock was getting high from yet another case right in front of him. And… To be honest, he couldn't help but wish he could grab that man by his too-tight button down shirt, pin him to the ground to keep him from nearly bouncing off the walls, and – well, the rest that he wanted to do with him was further into the gutter than he ought to be right now.

"John… John… John..! John!"

John snapped out of it to see Sherlock staring right at him with an unreadable expression on his face. That's when John realized he had been zoning out so much that he hadn't heard Sherlock practically shouting his name. His face turned the slightest shade of red, and of course Sherlock noticed. His brows furrowed and he marched his way to John's seat. He took John's face into his hands and examined him. Mumbling to himself, he said, "Relatively normal body temperature… No signs of a fever or any impending illness… Breathing rate normal…" Once he'd finished his quick examination of John he pursed his lips, having not figured out why John was blushing. He released his face and took a step back. Crossing his arms, he asked John, "Are you feeling alright? Are you tired? Worn down? Feeling sick? Coming down with the flu?"

John shook his head no. "I'm just… It's just warm in here, is all."

Sherlock frowned a bit more, unconvinced. But after a moment of silence he simply shrugged it off and, with a sweep of his arm grabbed his coat and dashed out the door, only pausing a moment to yell back at John, "We have to go find Lestrade!" John would have attempted a response but he knew Sherlock would be too far away by the time he finished thinking. With a sigh, John set his book aside, zipped up his coat, and headed out their apartment. He found Sherlock waiting outside, impatient for a taxi. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited aside him, relatively deep in thought. Sherlock's thorough inspection of his face marked the second time today that they had been in incredibly close range to each other. John couldn't help but wonder if maybe he should one day bring up that morning to Sherlock. Or maybe he'd even let Sherlock know of his feelings. John smacked himself mentally for the consideration of that option though. He knew Sherlock wasn't exactly knowledgeable in terms of actual love, but he certainly knew the chemistry behind it. This itself was proven with Irene Adler.

So as the taxi pulled up and John climbed in after Sherlock, he made a conscious decision to be very sure and careful to not let any bodily cues reveal themselves to Sherlock whenever Sherlock could possibly be observing him. He didn't want Sherlock to know anything about his feelings until he himself knew just what he was going to do with them.

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**It's a rather short one, so sorry about that :/ I just wanted to get in a chapter where John's still trying to figure out what to do. I'll probably add in a bit more fluff next chapter, and then either Chapter 4 or 5 will be John's confession! Right now's testing season so I probably won't be updating as much as I'd like. But within two weeks I should be able to update much more often cause I'll actually have time to develop and write good chapters :) In the meantime, go check out my other stories! There's one story that involves Sherlock's sister, and a one-shot of mine of Loki and Sigyn. Anyways, I'll hopefully see you with a new chapter within the next week! Please review and let me know what you're thinking :) Thanks loves!**


	3. What a Case Part 1

**Disclaimer: I use the word "gashed" in this first paragraph. I mean that he was cut deeply. Apparently it is also an incredibly vulgar slang word for something else, and that is not what I mean whatsoever. Just wanted to clear that up for any of you who could know what the more vulgar definition of the word is.**

**Otherwise, sorry for the 8 day wait, I have three tests down and one more to go! I have a lot to do today but I finally came up with a good story for this chapter to follow, so I figured I'd try to type it all up within the hour and post it for you guys to read. Thank you so much for those who have been reading, and especially those who are reviewing. It truly means the world to me :) Let me know what you think of this chapter! Thank you!**

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Twenty-eight hours. Twenty-eight _bloody_ hours. That's how long they'd been away from 221B on that _stupid_ case.

John was irritated, and Sherlock was worn through. Turns out their criminal mastermind (second to only one) was quicker and cleverer than Sherlock had given him credit for, and therefore had given them quite a chase.

John was dirty, and Sherlock was gashed. The two stumbled through the doors of their flat at 11pm, tired and sore. They crashed onto their couch and laid there, attempting to catch their breath. After both their breathing had slowed down, John's mind turned from being able to breathe again to chewing Sherlock out and berating him for that insane and senseless pursuit of a murderer. John hadn't had sleep for the past forty-three hours, since the morning that the case began Sherlock had yanked him from a full night's sleep at 4 instead of the usual 5:30am. Also, if they hadn't pursued such a long and awful case, they wouldn't be in such a stately condition.

John's head was swimming, and Sherlock's was throbbing. John lifted himself into a sitting position upon their couch and turned to face Sherlock, ready to deliver is shouting lecture, but then hesitated. John's breathing had been full and steady by the time his heart rate levelled, but Sherlock's was shallow and erratic. Something was wrong. It was only then that John realized that Sherlock's head was bleeding, and badly. John bit his lip at the sight, then did a quick once-over on Sherlock's body, and realized that he had more wounds from the knife fight he had got tangled up in over John while on their chase than John had thought. Wincing, John thought back on the incident.

"_He's getting away, John!" Sherlock shouts into the wind, which carries it back a few feet to where John is sprinting to catch up to his jaguar-like companion._

"_I'm coming, I said!" John nearly screams back at Sherlock, panting so hard he's afraid he'll cough up his lungs after they stop running so fast. But John doesn't have time to cough up his lungs, because he's pulled out of his pursuit too early. John chokes as he is yanked backwards and pulled up against a stone-like surface, knife pressing to throat. He goes to cough but realizes a split half-second later that he is feeling something cool and very sharp against his blazing skin that is dripping with sweat._

_John sucks in a breath. There's no way for him to call to Sherlock, and no way that Sherlock will come back to him in enough time, because by the time Sherlock figures out John is not 8 feet behind him, he'll be too far away to run back to find him. John just focuses on calming his breathing as quickly as possible, but he doesn't dare breathe through his mouth, just in case the sweat on his neck causes the knife to slip at the rise and fall of an inhale of air._

_He wills himself to calm down as he forcibly slows his breathing, but it's no use. No matter how settled his breathing eventually will become, his heart still pounds harder than it had when John was desperately trying to catch up to Sherlock. It just isn't fair that the consulting detective has legs as long as a flamingo's. John tries to come up with some solution in his mind as to how to get out of this sticky situation, but to no avail. His captor hasn't even made a smug chuckle yet, let alone spoken some sort of a threat to him. But John thinks too soon._

"_You ready to die, Mr. Watson?" a tenor, gruff, I-smoke-too-much voice speaks into John's ear, which is followed with a low _hehe. _John can't help but slightly roll his eyes. _Typical_, he thinks. However, he isn't annoyed for long because he feels a prick at his skin and a new trail of liquid trickle down his throat. He doesn't so much as dare to gulp, but he feels his heart beat faster, if that is even possible._

Sherlock…_ he whispers in his mind. _Where in the world are you when you're needed the most?_ He closes his eyes and holds his breath as the knife presses fatally close. But suddenly, it disappears with a loud _crack_. John's eyes fly open as he feels the stone-like surface disappear from him as well and a shout of pain rings into the pavement. John falls to the ground and begins to cough. He reaches a hand to his neck and carefully examines the wound but tries not to let his dirty fingers make contact while he hears a grunt and a thump on the ground. However, his relieved mind is too caught up in himself that he doesn't register it. As his fingers begin to coat with blood while they slowly trace up his neck, he takes a chance and glances up towards the grunting and scuffling._

_There in the streetlight is Sherlock and his captor, one fist to a broken wrist, the other fist to a fist holding a longer knife than John had realized had been pressed up to his throat. John gulps as the two struggle against each other. Sherlock is taller, but the man is infinitely stronger. John then realizes that the captor's left wrist must've been broken when Sherlock yanked the hand holding the knife away. John feels his heart swell a bit as he stays there kneeling on the ground, too weak to do anything but watch helplessly as they battle it out._

_Eventually Sherlock is able to hit the man harshly in his windpipe, which causes the man to heave over in a coughing fit, and in that weakened state, Sherlock bashes the man's head over with the handle-end of the knife. As soon as the man is fully knocked out, Sherlock texts Lestrade the address of their location, then handcuffs the man to the streetlight – where Sherlock got the pair of handcuffs John will never know – and whisks away back to 221B, John weakly following behind._

There were many times the knife seemed to come too close for comfort to Sherlock's body and John would always wince at that moment, ready for the cry from Sherlock, but the cries never came. Because of that, John had assumed the light had been playing tricks on him and Sherlock hadn't sustained any injury from the fight, but he couldn't be more wrong. John took in a deep breath, set his ready lecture for Sherlock aside for now, and went to wash off his hands so he could tidy up Sherlock's wounds.

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**I meant for this chapter to be more interaction between them than the actual flashback, but you guys can see how that turned out :P I think I'll work on the second part of this chapter today as well, so you can get two updates, but for now, I'll give you this to read while you wait for the second part :) Hope you enjoyed Chapter 3 Part 1!**


	4. What a Case Part 2

**Alright, you beauties, looks like IOU another chapter ;) So sorry for the wait, it's been an… Energetic past few weeks, to say the least. And admittedly, I didn't fully know where I wanted to go with this chapter and it was hard to get back into the swing/mood of things, what with school wrapping up and all I could think of was everything summer was/is going to hold this year. But, here we are! I'm really happy with how the style and story turned out, so hopefully it was worth the delay. Let me know if anything feels a little out of place or OOC or anything, and I'll be sure to adjust.  
Oh, and thank you for making my life as I watch the Favorites/Reviews/Follows count increase so much :)****  
**

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"Sherlock, I won't ask you again. Take off that bloody shirt!"

"You say you're asking but that isn't a question, it's a demand. Also, if you're attempting to make an impression by swearing at me, it won't work; obviously this shirt literally is bloody and therefore your choice of words is inherently –"

"SHERLOCK HOLMES, I DO NOT CARE. TAKE OFF THE DAMN SHIRT, NOW."

Sherlock was about to give another retort but shut his mouth upon seeing the fuming look upon John's face. After a few moments Sherlock gave in, giving a dramatic sigh as he stood up, a fleeting wince crossing his features. He gave another pointed look at John, but John's face remained adamant and angry, so with a roll of his eyes he shrugged off his coat and began to unbutton the (literally) bloody shirt.

John's breathing was fast and hard, but – he told himself – it was simply because of that infuriating and pointless row Sherlock had insisted on pursuing with him. _Damn that bastard_, he thought to himself, as he glared at Sherlock while the insufferable man undressed in front of him.

However, the anger that was fogging up his mind soon cleared away to be quickly replaced by a… different sort of fogginess. John took in a few breaths to calm himself down and focus on the task at hand: patch up all of Sherlock's (many) knife wounds. His eyebrows furrowed slightly with concern at the sight of them. He tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock allowed himself to be so hurt just to save John, but that thought didn't seem to be going away. He shut his eyes, took in a deep breath, rolled up his sleeves, and knelt in front of Sherlock's exposed and bloodied chest.

He had a set of first aid supplies next to him. For the majority of the time he was in 'tunnel vision' mode: focusing solely on the task at hand, tending to one spot at a time. Sherlock was quiet, but not in his usual anxious, ready-to-burst-from-the-tediousness-of-the-situation-at-hand, typical way. The silence was unusual but steady and almost calming, which eventually caught up to John despite his state of focus and caused him to take pause. His hands halted mid-procedure and he tilted his head to the side in first observation, then confusion, as he slightly pursed his lips and his eyebrows drew closer together as they furrowed. He cleared his throat, then relaxed the muscles in his face as he turned back towards Sherlock's.

"Sherlock…" he spoke but soon drifted off, as his eyes fell upon his counterpart. Sherlock's current state was of a neutral, peaceful expression about his features: his shoulders were relaxed, his eyes half-closed in drowsiness, his lips slightly parted as he breathed and his head tilted back onto the top of the couch.

John was stunned. His eyes blinked a few times in speechlessness, and after a few moments he drew in a shaky breath. He looked downwards at his hands, and realized they still held the tools that were assisting him in the task he had yet to complete. _Oh_, his mind went, making a mental note of them. It took a second before John recalled what exactly he had intended to use them for.

He shook his head once, vigorously, in order to keep him awake and shake him out of the reverie that the shock of seeing Sherlock's rare state had put him in. As he fought to keep his hands steady while he worked over Sherlock's body, he noticed he felt his body getting warmer, and he blushed at his body's awareness of the range of proximity he was in accordance to Sherlock. He blinked forcefully. _Concentrate_, he berated himself in his mind.

However, his body seemed to be relaxing under the comfort of Sherlock's peaceful presence and, as a side effect, wasn't keen on staying awake to complete the job much longer. All John wanted was to lay Sherlock on his back, throw a duvet over him, and snuggle up against him on that small but otherwise cozy couch. And though a part of him was still fighting to _Stay awake_, the part of him that so wanted to just sleep next to Sherlock was winning by a long shot. And before he knew it, he had succumbed to the weariness and warmth that slumbering Sherlock was.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes in full alertness a few minutes after John fully settled into unconsciousness. He lifted his head, slowly, so as not to wake John, and after another few minutes to ensure that John was indeed completely asleep, he slightly shifted his body to get a little more comfortable. He then leaned forward ever so gently – even with the precaution of being gentle he still couldn't suppress a wince – and glanced down at his friend. John was out like a light, slumped and halfway draped over the part of the couch next to Sherlock and halfway draped over Sherlock's lap. His fingers were still holding the medical tools – albeit loosely – and his head was leaning against Sherlock's right thigh. Sherlock gazed upon the sight, his eyes flitting and glitzing about, absorbing and storing every minute detail, down to the very bone. His intention of faking a state of being asleep was to have a moment to think about everything he had been observing from John as soon as possible and to rid himself of John's constant beratement; it was simply too distracting. After a moment he slowly reclined back against the cushions and, with steepled hands underneath chin, closed his eyes and recalled the past couple of months.

_John, being just the slightest bit flustered every time Sherlock caught him by surprise._

_John, eyes flickering Sherlock's way every time he thought Sherlock wasn't looking or was too occupied to notice._

_John, muscles tensing nearly imperceptibly every time Sherlock invaded his personal bubble._

_John, pulse quickening in the night every time as Sherlock's name arose from the midst of his dreams in an incoherent murmur._

_John, lips parting to allow air to pass through every time Sherlock asked him to hand him something and they made any form of physical contact._

_John, breath hastening as he pulled away from Sherlock when…_

Sherlock's mind screeched to a halt as his eyes flew open and his eyebrows came together in a small furrow. He dropped his hands to place them at his side atop the seat cushions, lowered his head down and tilted it to the side in slight alarm – his body winced at the movement, trying to remind him to be careful, but he paid it no heed. Apparently, his mind had stored away a moment that, for reasons unknown, was incomplete. His eyes danced from side to side, trying to recall the full memory, but for the life of him he could not remember what had happened that made John react in such a way that he would subconsciously record the information and file it away. After a few minutes he huffed and sunk back into the couch cushions once more, moodily accepting defeat against his own mind.

Suddenly a small snort broke the silence for a brief moment, followed by a jumble of mumbling and then dispersed with a soft sigh riding Sherlock's name once again. Sherlock glanced down and saw John shifting his head just so before settling back into Sherlock's lap. His watchful and observant eye took note but also went vaguely soft, gentling at the sight of John's sleeping and content form.

His mind flickered back to the events of the past evening, chasing down the criminal, John being taken, and Sherlock fighting to free John from the situation. He thought for a moment, puzzled by one of the facts: he had chosen to fight the criminal instead of talking the man into letting John go. He blinked, slightly confused. Normally his tactic would be to talk – or rather, confuse – an opponent out of doing something he did not want the offender to do. But so shockingly had the sudden disappearance of John overcome him that when he did realize John was gone, his immediate reaction to finding John and the captor was to deal with him with force, which happened to be fueled by protectiveness and anger.

_Protectiveness?_ Sherlock's mind asked himself. He toyed with that particular choice of word for a moment. _Yes_, he finally replied with. His reasoning was that John was his friend and his only friend, his partner and companion in nearly everything and, though he hated to admit it, John did mean something to him. He had always subconsciously knew he would do anything to save John's life if it would have to come to it, and tonight had merely been proof of that knowledge.

Knowing John was important to him made Sherlock pay close attention with everything John did. After the events with The Woman, Sherlock took practice paying attention to body language and any other subtext clues the people around him could be exuding without their realizing it, and these people included John. The facts he had been gathering from his newfound pastime proved to be inconclusive to him, however, with regard to John, which is why he was still in the process of mentally taking in everything John did and said. He assumed it would be of little importance but something in him said he needed to pay attention.

_No, not just pay attention_, the little something in him reminded him. _You see, but you do not observe, Sherlock…_

Frowning at this thought, he shifted forward a tad. John grunted at the sudden movement but still remained vastly asleep. Sherlock reached to John's hands to remove the tools needed to operate on his wounds and set them aside quietly in the toolbox. He reached for a pillow next to him and tossed it onto the ground, an action which made no sound. He then, very slowly, inched his hands underneath John's torso and then, at the same excruciatingly slow speed, moved John from his lap to the floor, lying him down on his back. After John was settled Sherlock took John's hands in his own and placed them across his chest.

By the end of the process John looked like a sleeping beauty, hands crossed over his heart and soft, blond hair gracing his face. Sherlock carefully stepped over him and headed to the shower, with the questioning of his gentle actions and the motivations for such tenderness quickly invaded his mind.

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**So that's that :) What did you think? Any guesses of where this may go next? Anything you have to say definitely goes into my mind and sits there a little while, so if something you say peaks my interest, you may see it appearing somehow in upcoming chapters :)**** Stay tuned for the next one! I'm getting busy for the next month so it may not come very soon… But hopefully I can sneak in some late nights to work on it. Thank you all so much for reading! Crossing my fingers that you'll all hear from me again very soon.**


	5. Volcanic Eruptions

**You guys! I'M FREE!**

**So yes, it's been nearly a month since I've updated, and for that, I'm so terribly sorry… Trust me, it probably hurt me more than it hurt any of you. I've been so dying to work on this and a million other ideas I have, but I've had so much to do all this time… But I'm finally free for pretty much the next full month and I'm so happy about it!**

**So with that delightful and perky note, I present to you a new chapter :D It turned out a lot better than I ever hoped it would, so yay for that! Hope you like it and it doesn't keep you too on edge, haha. Enjoy your read!**

**Oh, btw, there are bits and pieces that will seem angsty, but I promise it really isn't. Not in the grand scheme of things… *suspense heightens***

* * *

A shot fired across the people. He heard it loud and clear, the resonance lingering as it continued to ring in his ears. His eyes tightly shut on its own accord as his fingers squeezed and the gun fired again.

A chill ran through his blood as he felt the power in his hands, practically pulsing through his veins as he pulled the trigger again and again. His ears were so full of the piercing claps that he was completely tuning out the startled shouts of alarm that were rising through the gunshots, fighting to be heard and acknowledged.

That last thing he knew was clear, distant voices were rapidly growing louder but hazier. Before he could be pulled away from the world around him, however, there was time to process and register a proper visual on a face that had drifted into his scope of vision.

"John…" his whisper rode on his last exhale, as the universe folded in on itself and called itself black.

* * *

He had to be sure.

I mean, technically he didn't _have_ to be sure about it all. He had decided a couple weeks back, after long internal debates, that he would not tell Sherlock about his feelings. He knew that, even in the best case scenario, Sherlock would return his feelings but would not know how to tell him that he did, and everything would just be awkward for a while. He could probably kiss him to ease him into the beginnings of a new kind of relationship, but… John just didn't feel wholly comfortable with that. No, he knew that IF Sherlock ever returned his feelings, he would have to find out by either deep observation or by Sherlock telling him himself.

Whatever the case was, he knew he just couldn't tell Sherlock. Too many things could go wrong and then where would he be? Much worse off than if he didn't ever tell him. Yet, with that all being said…

John needed to know, know if Sherlock felt anything for him at all. It wouldn't affect his decision about telling him of his own feelings, but he knew he could feel comfort and more at ease if he knew – or at least was certain – that Sherlock felt the same things he was feeling whenever he was near.

So, with the care of a doctor, he purposefully got food that could (at best) give Sherlock indigestion after he ate it for dinner, but would actually make him sick enough that he'd need to retire to bed early, and be mildly sick the next day – sick enough that John would be able to have contact with him more than usual due to attending to him, but not sick enough that he wouldn't have total unawareness to whatever was going on around him.

* * *

His mind was fuzzy. He didn't like it feeling fuzzy. He groaned internally at his sensory-acknowledgement vocabulary. He tried recalling the events of last night, but to little avail at the moment. There was something, something he knew he'd be able to grasp at later, but for right now his brain was not working in full condition – for whatever damn reason! – and both body and intellectual instinct told him to rest for now. Nothing in his symptoms spoke of poison, so he needed to sleep this off, no matter how much he dreaded doing so.

Mentally, he gritted his teeth and forced his body back into unconsciousness.

* * *

John was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast and tea. True, it was a bit early for a normal person to be starting the day along, especially when this particular normal person was not being hurried out of bed by an erratic flatmate, but he had to be up early in order to know what Sherlock would be like from the get-go – and he also knew that it could possibly be quite entertaining to see Sherlock first thing this morning…

* * *

He was having a dream, and his eyes were flitting back and forth, as if trying to take in everything that they could see before them behind their closed lids. And in his dream, he was.

He was at a crime scene, and John was the offender.

"Sherlock?" John had asked, when the supposed answer produced itself to Sherlock and horror flashed across Sherlock's face.

At first he had felt shock, disbelief, then a deep feeling of hurt and betrayal. His heart felt like it was being mercilessly squeezed out of himself and continued to feel so until-

Wait. That didn't make sense though. John's being the murderer in this crime didn't fit into all the pieces of evidence. He took a step closer to examine the body of a man whose chest had been stabbed multiple times to the point of death. Upon further inspection, his groggy mind slowly made deductions and he thought he was figuring out who this person was until he happened to look to his left at the hand that wasn't skimming over the body and started: his hand was hefting the weight of a large knife.

And both it and his hand were covered in dry blood.

His stomach churned at the sight of this and, reluctantly, he turned to look at the victim's face. Sure enough, he saw what he dreaded seeing the moment he laid eyes on the knife in his hand: John's cold, lifeless eyes.

Sherlock awoke with a shout.

* * *

John jumped in his seat when he suddenly heard a strangled sort of yell coming from Sherlock's bedroom. He'd been attempting to read, but in all honesty his entire focus had been narrowed onto Sherlock's room, so even though it was a bit of a ways away and the door was closed, he heard the shout just as vividly as he would have were Sherlock sleeping in his chair in front of John. John therefore leaped out of his seat and hurried over to Sherlock's room. He gave the door two short raps and then proceeded to enter without any indication of Sherlock's consent.

However, John's hyper-awareness and hurried movement fell short at the sight before him upon opening the door: Sherlock, tangled in his bed sheets, plopped on his rear end on the floor right next to his bed, legs wrapped in the white cloth and partially folded, hair disheveled, and face contorting in pain as the heel of one of his hands pressed hard into the middle of his forehead and the other hand clutched onto area of fabric in front of his stomach. His skin was glistening with sweat and his chest was very visibly and rapidly rising and falling as he was nearly panting, gasping for breath.

John rushed to Sherlock's side immediate, putting one calming hand on his tense back and using the other to reach Sherlock's forehead, gently pushing his hand away so he could check his temperature. When he realized it didn't feel warmer than he was intending it to, his eyebrows contorted ever so slightly in the smallest bit of confusion as he pulled away. Sherlock's breathing pattern was slowly returning to normal, but he wasn't acknowledging John in any way. John silently moved away from Sherlock and left the room.

* * *

Sherlock had tensed up as soon as his frantic mind had registered the knocking, and by the time he had John was already at his side, about to place his hands on his back and forehead. Sherlock wasn't a dreamer; he just didn't dream – though perhaps that was due to the fact that he hardly ever slept. However this time he not only dreamed but the dream was so strong that he still remembered every bit of it even now in full consciousness. Because of this, he couldn't bring himself to even glance at John… To think, he had literally stabbed John to death and hadn't even realized it until too late. Yes, he knew it was a dream but it still unnerved him to no end.

His head was pounding and he felt incredibly nauseous. He relaxed a bit when he felt something cool and dripping wet press against his forehead: John, holding a washcloth to his friend's face, hoping to alleviate the pain and calm him down. Sherlock thought he was finally feeling a bit better when all of a sudden, John spoke out softly:

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze, and then bolted.

* * *

John stood there in his place, frozen momentarily, taken aback by Sherlock's sudden flight. His arm was still in the air, holding the dripping cloth, so he lowered it back down. He got to his feet, and turned around to face the door. He wasn't sure if he should pursue or stay here or resume his normal activities until he heard retching noises from the loo. He instinctively raced towards the sound but skidded to a halt in the doorway. Remembering the glass of water on the nightstand, John turned around, reached out, took hold of it, then hastily booked it after Sherlock, trying to be careful about not spilling the water but the water sloshed around and spilled a bit onto his fingers anyway.

When John entered the room, he took in the sight momentarily as he gently set the glass onto the sink counter. Sherlock looked incredibly shaken, and not just because he had vomited into the toilet, but for other reasons as well – reasons John couldn't determine at the moment. Creases in his forehead appeared as John quietly knelt next to Sherlock. He didn't touch him this time, because he didn't know how Sherlock would react. All he did was wait for Sherlock's breathing to reach a resting point.

* * *

_Sherlock? Sherlock..? Sherlock…_

John's voice was echoing in his head as the bright, bold, and intrusive images of his dream flashed across his mind. He felt sick, but there was really nothing he could do about it. _Nothing more I can, anyway_, he grumbled in his mind, peeking for a fleeting moment into the toilet bowl. He grimaced outwardly and reached, with a shaky left hand, to pull the lever to wash all the gunk away.

As soon as he accomplished that his hand plopped next to him as he leaned against the bathtub behind him with a sigh of relief, eyes flitting closed. His head tipped back to rest against the edge and he ran his right hand over his face, breathing in. Suddenly he felt warm fingers wrap around his left wrist as a cold, wet glass was pressed into the palm of his hand. He immediately took hold of it, lifted his head back up with effort, and opened his eyes.

John was sitting right in front of him, wearing a face that spoke neutrality but masked worry, concern, and mild confusion. Sherlock looked at the glass for a beat before raising it to his lips. Of course whilst bringing it up his mind registered that his hand was shaking – after-effects of the dream, undoubtedly, though John didn't know that.

His eyes flicked towards John's but then flashed away almost instantly in the quickest, subtlest movement, and he could see that John had taken quick note of it, due to the look in his eyes and the way his eyebrows twitched towards each other momentarily. Inwardly, he sighed. He knew he'd have to make up an explanation for this, and quickly he came up with something. But that alibi was quickly diminished as he was seized with an onslaught of pain in the front of his brain once more. With a sudden grunt of pain and shock he leaned forward, eyes shutting tightly, right hand flying up to his forehead to bring pressure to his skull, in hopes that it would help a bit like it had minutes earlier.

John responded immediately. "Here, take this." He held his hand out, upon which lay two small pills. "It's ibuprofen. We have aspirin but I know ibuprofen sits you with better so I grabbed some while I was getting your water." When Sherlock didn't respond he sighed. "Here." He scooted forward and placed a light, hesitant hand against Sherlock's jaw. "Open your mouth." After a moment he complied and John quickly dropped the two pills into his mouth. He had tried to avoid contact but his fingertip lightly brushed Sherlock's bottom lip upon pulling away and somewhere, deep within his throbbing brain, it lightly registered as 'surprisingly pleasant', 'more than welcome', and 'exciting'.

Of course in the grand scheme of things he hadn't noticed it at all. If he had been given a moment he might have noticed it and reacted, but he hadn't had that moment because instantly John was pushing Sherlock's hand that was holding the glass up to meet his lips, to get Sherlock to drink. Sherlock automatically obeyed, opening his lips to meet the rim and drank.

* * *

John watched as Sherlock gulped down the water, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down. John blinked a few times. He knew he should focus on Sherlock not feeling well but for right now he just let himself enjoy the sight.

He was worried about Sherlock. Something seemed off, more than he had expected it to be, so he knew he needed to know what was bothering him in order to assess how to best attend to Sherlock's needs. He just needed to figure out what was the right question to ask. So, he watched Sherlock's movements:

Sherlock had finished the water and lowered it from his lips. He seemed to look for a place to set it down but wasn't sure where, what with the carpeted floor and all, so John silently took it from him. When John's hand was in Sherlock's vision of registry, his head dipped and eyes darted away from it. Because John was observing he noticed all these things, and immediately is worry grew. Silently, he placed the empty glass on the counter and pointedly studied Sherlock. Sherlock's only response was the smallest of fidgeting, but that triggered an alarm in John's mind. _He's unsettled by me. Why?_ John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock?"

He remained silent.

John's face fell flat, suddenly annoyed. "Sherlock, talk to me. What's wrong? Why are you acting like this?"

Sherlock stiffened, and then shrugged. "No reason John. I fell ill last night, and the effects of it carried over to this morning. Nothing more." He got up shakily, though it was obvious he was trying to mask it. John just watched him. Suddenly, Sherlock's hand flew to his forehead as his legs began to give way.

"Whoa there, easy!" John was up instantly, hands gripping Sherlock's arm as he steadied him and lowered him down to sit on the edge of the bathtub. "Look at me." He pursed his lips slightly when Sherlock still refused to do so. "OK," he continued, slowly. "Listen to me then. Just close your eyes and breathe for a bit. Once your head is clear we'll head back to your room, and you're going to sleep this migraine off."

Instead of tiredly obeying like John expected him to, Sherlock snapped at him, his head twisting so to glare at him but before his eyes met John's they faltered and shot back down towards his feet. His voice was still harsh though as he said shortly, "I don't need any more sleep, John; I. Am. Fine."

John was getting a little frustrated now, but breathed deeply to cool down his slowly rising temper. "Sherlock, you need to rest. It's the only way to get rid of this headache of yours. You don't even need to go to your room if you don't want. You can slump on the couch and close your eyes for a while; I'm fine with that."

Sherlock merely scoffed and stood indignantly. "Since when do I need your permission to..." He trailed off for a split second, his features gathering together in a wince at the pounding ache in his head, but before John could react Sherlock visibly forced control back onto his face and set his jaw. Still avoiding John's eyes, Sherlock bitingly said, "I don't need your help, and I don't need to rest. I will go about my day just as usual. In fact," he paused dramatically, and John strained to hear whatever Sherlock was tuning into, "Lestrade is texting me this very moment about a case that has him stumped, more so than usual." And with that, Sherlock all but flew out of the room to find his phone on the table near his violin stand, John hasting to pursue him, a frustrated "Sherlock!" leaving his lips.

* * *

"Sherlock," John pressed, standing firmly behind Sherlock, facing his back, while Sherlock's eyes skimmed over the screen on his phone. "Sherlock, I don't care if Greg is stumped on a case, you need to rest so you don't vomit over the whole crime scene while we're there!"

"'We', John?" was all Sherlock responded with as he sidestepped John and went for his coat draped over his chair.

"'We'? Of course, 'we'! Why would it not be 'we'?"

Sherlock made a quiet humming noise in the back of his throat. "Because, John, you're not coming along. This case is particularly easy and therefore I won't need you along; you'll just slow the process."

John was getting angry, and therefore, his voice level was rising. "Look, Sherlock, I know you're trying to avoid me, but if you're going to do it you might as well try to be less obvious about it! Regardless, it's not going to work, because there is NO way I am letting you out of this flat!"

"And why ever not, John?" Sherlock responded coolly, fixing his scarf and slipping his gloves on.

"Sherlock! It's freezing out there, which means the ache in your head will only worsen, and besides, you need to tell me why you're so bent on avoiding me!"

Sherlock showed no indication of an intent to respond, and instead tried to quickly evade John and slip out the door before he intervened. Unfortunately, Sherlock had no such luck, as John had blocked his path immediately.

"Dammit Sherlock," John spoke out in a lowered, quiet, gruff, and bone-chilling whisper. "You are staying here, and we are having a talk. You have never behaved like this before, so obviously something is wrong."

"There is _nothing_ wrong with me," Sherlock spat out through gritted teeth, making a dart for the door handle but having his hand instead caught by John's.

"No, there IS, and we are going to talk about it!" When Sherlock ripped his hand out instantly after being trapped by John's and then vied for the knob once more, John seized Sherlock's shoulders and gave him a good solid shake, hoping to snap Sherlock's attention towards him rather than the door behind them.

Fortunately, Sherlock's eyes did immediately snap towards John for the first time that day. Unfortunately, John's choice of intervention triggered an onslaught of accusations.

Arms flying to roll off John's hands, Sherlock's eyes caught aflame and the dam broke inside him. "Well, John, if you insist upon something being wrong with me, perhaps we should first speak of what's wrong with you!"

Across John's face flashed an expression of confusion, but he barely was able to slip in a thoroughly jolted and jarred interjection ("What..?") before Sherlock's train chugged onward, picking up on both volume and speed before he attacked full on at the very end:

"Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Two and a half months ago there was a particularly puzzling case that had me stumped for an unnecessary-to-define amount of hours, but when I finally reached the conclusion and exclaimed the fact of it to you, your reaction was odd, most odd indeed. For who reacts to a declaration such as the one I made in a manner as you did, even if I had possibly startled you in doing so? And then, there was the account six weeks ago on the night that we arrived back at our flat after the encounter with the knife-crazed man when you attempted to tend to my wounds but, whilst I was supposedly asleep, you experienced some interesting - and may I also add hindering - reactions to the situation you chose to place yourself in. And all this while, there were many other, countless moments when your pupils would dilate though the lighting had not changed, your breath would catch though we had not just come off of any sort of challenging chase, your body would seize up though you have no medical history of unusual muscular cramping and/or seizure, and last - but not least! - your recent yet insistence on being in constant contact with me! So tell me, John, what is YOUR **PROBLEM**?"

"I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU!" John exploded, face burning red with both embarrassment and anger. "**How can you not see that?** Geez, Sherlock, for somebody who is a supposed genius, you sure are slow! What happened to your fancy 'science of deduction'? I DON'T SEE YOU DEDUCING _NOW_!"

Sherlock was frozen, eyes wide, and John's voice had broke and given way. He was leaning over, knees bent, hands on thighs, his chest heaving like never before. After a few moments had passed, however, John's exact words had sunk deep into John's being and struck home.

John froze as well; a resounding _Oh, sh*t_ filling his mind.

* * *

***eyebrows wagging* Thoughts?**


	6. You Never Asked

**Five months... I'm so sorry, fellow readers... I got lazy and busy all at the same time... This was also a difficult chapter to get right so I kept attempting it and putting off and then repeating the process... Anyways, I'm finally back :) I do just have to say I adore reading your reviews. Your investment in the story is what makes me keep going, so thank you all so much. Alrighty now, fasten your seatbelts, we're headed for a bumpy ride...**

* * *

Dawn was breaking over London, the sun's newest rays seeping through every corner, crack, and window slit it could reach. It even fell over Baker Street, and flooded the room a golden yellow as it slowly rose higher into the sky.

But no matter how warm and calming the break of day was this morning, and no matter how warm it had been every day of the past three months, there was nothing it could do to tamper with the most subtle of cool atmospheres that had settled into 221B of Baker Street so long ago.

Dr. John H. Watson, Army Doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He was sitting at the table, mug of tea to his left and hands at the ready to update his blog, to record the events of the most recent case.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Consulting Detective, only one in the world. He was standing by the window, music stand to his left and hands at the ready to compose his music, to help recharge his mind after the events of the most recent case.

Sherlock Holmes. And John Watson. Going about in their typical fashion; no one suspected anything to be amiss.

And yet there was.

It was a bone-deep thing to be amiss. It would only be in later hindsight that even they would be able to tell that anything was wrong.

John would walk out in his bathrobe, damp hair disheveled, boiling the water for the kettle. Sherlock would be at the table with his latest experiment, recording different bits of data while simultaneously adding droplets of hydrochloric acid to the unknown solution. John would say, "I'm trying out a new tea, some sort of herbal that apparently Mrs. Turner recommends to Mrs. Hudson. S'posed to do loads of good; care for a cuppa?"

"Hmm… No, no, I'm fine," would be the absentminded reply.

And so the days would go on. John would settle into the sofa with his newspaper (since he knew better than to turn on the telly when Sherlock was so meticulously going about an experiment) and cuppa. Sherlock would continue to be in his own little bubble. John would eventually dump the herbal tea out, very much needing his usual dosage of caffeine, and eventually Sherlock's phone would sound, alerting to a text from Lestrade. John always responded immediately to that alert that he had set specifically for Lestrade, and would set aside everything as he got ready to follow after his flat mate, while Sherlock would altogether abandon the experiment (since it was all just to chase the boredom away anyway), scoop up the phone, grab his coat, and sweep down the stairs while skimming through the details of the text, John only asking what it is this time once they were at the curb waiting for a taxi.

At the crime scenes Sherlock would piece it all together almost instantaneously, as per usual. John used to take notes in order to remember and keep track of it all, but at this point he only jotted the observations down for the records of NSYPD, since they obviously would need them. Lestrade would thank them, and they'd be off on their way.

Most days the cases would be too simple, too easy, and too little relief for the boredom (or was it more than that?) that constantly nagged at the super sleuth's mind. He'd plop onto the sofa with a huff, and John would pay no mind as he surfed about on his laptop.

Today was the different though. Instead of John taking of the Internet, he stood in the middle of the doorway, as though he had something on his mind that he was keen on saying out loud but was unsure as of how to go about it.

Eventually Sherlock picked up on the shift in routine and, with dramatic effort, lifted his head to peer over his shoulder to look at John. "What?" he asked grumpily.

John's eyes quickly flicked up to Sherlock's. "Oh," he said. "Well, um, I'm actually going out tonight. I'm just trying to decide if it's worth it to put together some dish that you might consume before I head out or if I'll just leave the ordering of takeout to you."

Sherlock ignored the rest as he honed in on the first bit he heard. "'Going out'?" Sherlock repeated, shifting until he sat upright on the couch. "With whom, may I ask?" he asked as he propped his elbows up on his thighs, fingers pressed firmly together as his eyes flicked about John, putting together all the signs that indicated 'going out' that he, for some bizarre reason, had not took notice of at all earlier.

"Ah," John shifted weight from one foot to the other unconsciously. "Um, Mary. Her name's Mary. Lovely girl I met from work. We've been going out for nearly a month now. I never told you because you never asked," John quickly added as defense, seeing Sherlock's face move to accuse John of keeping things from him.

Sherlock was quiet for only just a moment as he took John in. He was often socially unaware but he could read into John's remark. _You never asked…_ It resonated deep within him but he shoved the feeling away. "Ah, I see," he remarked coolly as he flopped back to the couch, his interest in the topic quickly dissipating. "Well don't bother with the food. Just grab some milk on your way home."

Sherlock could hear John's quiet exhale and almost heard him rolling his eyes as John nodded towards Sherlock's back. "Alright, just remember to actually eat something. It _is_ Thursday, after all." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, however, John walked back out the door and shut it behind him with a soft _click_.

A beat. Another. Three beats. Four, and Sherlock leapt off the couch to viciously pace around the flat, the observations he made of John before he turned his back to him flashing all about his mind:

"Hair gelled slightly. Made a point of doing so quickly before heading out on the case this morning. Had taken 4.76 minutes longer in the bathroom than he does most mornings. _Why had I not noticed that?_

Not wearing favoured jumper, instead is wearing a button down shirt that brings out the depth of the color of his eyes and a well-tailoured grey suit jacket under his coat. Comb in coat pocket. Shoes scrubbed. Face moisturized. Eyes brighter; likely carrying eye drops, his eyes do tend to dry out after too long of a case; must have brought it just to be safe. Obviously cares quite a bit about looking good for the girl, but said himself that he had been seeing her for a while now. Possibly tonight is an important night. But it couldn't be engagement; even John wouldn't leap so quickly into that sort of a responsibility. Posture was tense while discussing the topic, which could contribute to the theory of a possible proposal, but hands and center of gravity were relaxed, though, so obviously he is not worried about her or tonight. No, worried about something else. _What is it?_"

He continued to pace around the room, hands clasped behind his back, head declined, brows furrowed tightly together as he continued to think at a bullet's speed.

"This girl Marissa isn't herself a concern for him, but the topic of her is. It must be concerned about speaking about her to me. Conclusion: if she is not the concern, then I am."

His heart skipped a beat, but paying it no mind, he pressed on.

"Why would I be the concern? He was keeping in mind my eating habits and therefore my well-being, but obviously bringing up that topic was merely a ruse to disguise him telling the news of a new person of relative significance in his life. The fact that I have not been able to tell she was present must mean it was of paramount importance to him to keep all information about her from me. _But why?_"

The comment John had made that Sherlock had immediately shoved aside was now rising to the forefront of Sherlock's mind as he collapsed onto the sofa, head in his hands, pushing away all other observations and deductions he had made about John and leaving only this to echo in his now empty mind: _you never asked, you never asked, __**you never asked…**_

* * *

*rewind three months*

* * *

John's declaration and confession rang mercilessly in both their ears and the entire flat as the rest of the world went silent, for once. The moment stretched on forever has John's breathing had stilled and Sherlock continued to stand in front of him.

After too long and heavy a silence, John stood up, swallowed roughly (noting the new dryness of his mouth), and croaked out a "Well?"

His efforts were in vain, though, as Sherlock still stood nearly frozen in front of him. John shifted, uncomfortable with the heavy silence. After a few moments more of incredibly awkward tension, John cleared his throat roughly and hesitantly stepped away from the front door.

"Um, well, if you're still bent on going after the case, I won't stop you."

Still receiving no response of any kind from Sherlock except the continued lack-of-movement, John let out a sigh, dragged his hand over his face, and subtly walked away and to his chair where his tea and newspaper lay cold and abandoned.

He tried to sit down quietly so as not to attract any attention, but of course as soon as he shifted to sit comfortably his chair creaked and Sherlock's body snapped back into reality. With a voice sounding harsher than John hoped was intended, Sherlock finally spoke.

"You're in love with me?"

John closed his eyes. _Not how I wanted him to find out, not in the least..._ He cleared his throat and then took in a deep breath, his reply riding his exhale.

"Yes, I do believe I may have alluded to that."

Sherlock slowly turned around, head angled to both the left and the ground, eyebrows furrowed together.

"You love me."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, we've established that already." As Sherlock indicated no desire to progress from that thought, John huffed out a frustrated breath. "Look, Sherlock, forget the matter. It's no problem in the least; I don't expect you to reciprocate my feelings. Anyway, you don't need to worry about it, and as long as you don't I won't let it bother you."

A scoff (precursor to terrible words) escaped Sherlock's lips and John's heart lurched in painful wait.

"You won't let it bother me? What do you think your feelings have been doing ever since they grew large enough that even you noticed their existence? They have been a thorn in my side, John; they have been distracting to you and therefore to my work. I don't want you coming along with me to this case because it is obvious that you have no control over your emotions and are much too willing to let it overtake you and rule your decisions. I don't need your sentiment, I don't need your unabated feelings to persist and reign king in your head. John!" By now Sherlock had approached John's chair and John could feel the force of his words hitting the back of his head. John's eyes squinted shut, hoping to muster through the severity of the words without losing all his pride.

"Dr. Watson, I have not welcomed any advances you have attempted in the past and certainly don't welcome any anticipated ones of the future. I value you as a friend and colleague, no more." Sherlock suddenly retreated, standing in front of the shut door, adjusting his gloves. "Please consider that and take this time to deal with your emotions while I am gone." He reached for the knob and opened the door. Pausing only once since his tirade began, he took in a breath and, with a softer voice said, "Goodbye, John."

The door shut with a _click_ and John collapsed into dry sobs.

A few hours later a collected John had just settled into the sofa with a hot cup of tea and Chinese take-out. He had just turned on the telly when his phone dinged from the table. He turned down the volume, set the remote down, and took the phone. With a swipe he read the new message.

"Why did you never address the matter prior to today? –SH"

The phone slipped from John's hand. His throat now dry, John swallowed and then took a sip of tea. Inhaling deeply a few times, he did his best to recollect himself and reached for his phone. With weak determination he replied.

"You never asked."

* * *

_Ding. Ding. Ding._ A dozed-off Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. His neck felt incredibly sore. Sitting up with a groan, he rubbed his neck absentmindedly, attempting to sooth it. He scanned the room, trying to locate the device from which the sound came from.

Seeing his phone perched upon the kitchen counter, Sherlock decided to ignore the alert. After a few more minutes of the reminder alert that John had set up for him, however, Sherlock got up with a grumble and snatched the phone within a few long strides across the flat. He flicked through the messages sent to him, all seemingly from Lestrade.

"Sherlock, looks like the case from about a week ago isn't as closed as we thought. There's been a follow-up theft, robbery off of 12th, an insurance company. Theft was noticed and reported 45 minutes ago. This time there seems to be a message. No paper note but a specific design left at the scene. Please respond as soon as possible. –Lestrade"

"Sherlock, I've got my best team on cryptology here and they have a few ideas but nothing solid. Could really use your help here."

"I texted and called John but heard nothing from him. Where are you two? Don't tell me I need to drag you guys out of a clown costume again."

"It looks to be more than just material threat; sounds like a ransom. Does the combination 2089365 ring a bell in assoc. with Calhoun?"

"Sherlock, please respond."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and punched out a response while he raised his voice and called out to the flat. "John! Gordon called about a case. You could have least told me when he called you. Come on, we need to go now!"

After 38 seconds passed with no response from John, Sherlock let out a frustrated groan and was about to storm the stairs to John's room when he paused, mid-turn, realization settling upon him. Distracted, Sherlock glanced about the room, looking for a clock. His eyes rested upon his phone, the DI's text lighting the screen.

The time said 2:08. AM.

John never came home.


End file.
